Girl of the Unorthodox (UNDER REVISION)

Questions

As much as she would've been more than willing to stay with her mother for the rest of the night, her appointed visiting time inevitably came to an end and the same stout nurse came to retrieve her. However this time her face was a lot softer, and she had given Vanity a look of doleful sympathy as she made herself known at the door, giving a havering knock which made the girl's head twist weakly up from the sodden sheets.
"Sorry, my dear, as much as I hate to say this, I'm going to have to ask that you leave... visiting hours are over." She urged, frowning softly at the teenager's expense. "I'd be more than happy to let you stay, but... rules are rules, you know?"

Despite giving a humourless laugh in a vain attempt to get the girl to smile, Vanity sniffled, rising from her knees and wringing her damp sleeves bitterly.
"Yeah." Her voice was cold, albeit hoarse and scratchy from crying. She mopped her teary eyes with the fabric of her hoodie as the nurse stood still, worry etched onto her face as she was not sure what to do. She bid her mother goodbye with a kiss on her cheek, and she didn't even stir. "S' fine." She stated, hoisting her backpack over her shoulders and, stuffing her hands in her pockets, made her way out of the room reluctantly.

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The ride home was too long, almost interminable, and she didn't bother hooking up her earbuds to pass the gruelling length of the journey. Instead Vanity gazed absentmindedly out of the window at the rain which pelted against the glass barrier, appearing deep in thought to the unassuming patrons which passed her on the bus, when in reality her mind was blank. Her thoughts remained desolate and aimless as she trailed the streets home. At long last, Vanity reached her apartment complex and made headway up the many staircases. It was only until she was inside that she realised how... empty it was without her mom.

There was no faint music droning from the radio in the kitchen, no offhanded murmuring or loud singing and humming, no old documentaries broadcasting on the television like they usually would have been. It was lonely and she couldn't get the image out of her head, how her mother's face had been lacking any kind of sentiment- it was just so solitary and miserable even if she was unconscious. Vanity's head reeled as she shucked her rain-drenched coat off of her shoulders, allowing it to fall with an unceremonious thud at her feet. Her shoes followed a similar fate, neglected in the hall when they usually would have been placed on the shoe-rack to dry off for the next day. The quietude was disconcerting as she padded into the kitchen, suddenly feeling hungry despite herself.

Upon catching sight of the twenty dollar bill nestled neatly under a scrap of lined paper, moisture collected in her eyes once more. They were gonna get a takeout. It was that little, trivial thing which set her off again. Silently, she cried, grasping the piece of paper to her chest, feeling terribly achy and alone. Vanity unfolded it with care, even as she helmed through abysmally blurry eyes, and the handwriting was heartbreakingly familiar. However it was shaky. Vanity presumed her mother had written it in a rush.
'Hey honey,
I'm sorry I can't be there to eat it with you but I'll leave you some money to pay for it. Don't be greedy with it, though. Leave me left overs!
-Lots of Love,
            Mom.'
She had signed it off with three kisses, and there was a small pen sketch of a pizza slice beneath the tremulous writing. Vanity's lips pulled into the smallest of smiles, and the note gave her the sudden urge to comfort herself with more items.

Where was it that she kept her photo album? Spurred on by a hankering to fill the emptiness of not having her mother present, Vanity backed out of the kitchen, still clasping the note, and made her way into her mother's bedroom. She recalled a stash of Polaroid's that she kept in her closet, full of old memories of vague walks in the park at sunset with ice cream cones and sunflower fields, long spring dresses and sandals. Vanity wasted no time and set about sifting through the contents of her closet- she came across all sorts of trinkets like various tattered sketchbooks. As she flipped through them she uncovered lots of gesture drawings, unfinished sketches, still life depicted in pastels and watercolour pieces. There were lots of loose canvases, paint trays, coloured pencils, aged markers, and other art supplies before she finally recovered the moth eaten box.

It was stored away right at the very back of the closet, which gave the impression that it was deliberately hidden away. There was a fairly new looking note taped to the top of it, fingertips etched into the dust of the lid, and confusion promptly set in. Vanity was considerably more cautious with the parchment now, opening it up as if it was fragile- though she wasn't able to pin what made her so suddenly inclined to fidget. The handwriting was precise, and clean, as if it had been written at somebody's leisure, but she could immediately place the delicate cursive writing as her mom's. It was addressed to her, and nobody else, which sent an uneasy shiver down her back.

'Van,
Things were bound to end up as a mess. I'm not gonna tell you that I'm sorry. I'm not. You aren't a baby anymore. You deserve to know the truth. And I can't protect you. You need to learn to protect yourself, and as much as I hate for it to come to this, I'm a weak woman. I'm not cut out for this. I've slaved over 15 years and finally I realise- I can't look after myself, let alone a fifteen year old girl.
By the time you read this, I'm probably gone. Or something along those lines. Maybe by some miracle I make it through, I'll be in intensive care for the rest of my life.

I was gonna consider foster care, but I know how hard it is for you to trust strangers, especially when you're nearly a young lady. So, then I had to turn to the other option. The road I didn't want to go down. Truthfully, the reason it's been you and me for so long is because I tried cutting ties with them. The other part of your family. They aren't nice people, Van. But they're your family. And they're your only hope now.

I want the best start for you. I need you to pack as many things as you can fit into your backpack, clothes, stuff like that, take some photos, too. Then I want you to go into those woods, and I need you to go and look for a house, it's hidden away somewhere. Say you're looking for Cupid. Tell them your mom's name is Lydia. She'll know what you mean. But be careful. Don't let her get into your head. And don't let them turn you into a monster.

Remember that you'll always mean everything to me. I love you so much more than I can say.

Mom.'

"What?!"

At first, there was simply confusion. Empty, numbing confusion. She stared at the lines, rereading incessantly, and searching for something more, more context, but as she scrutinised the words it became clear that everything was premeditated. This had been written with the intent of being followed through. She had overdosed on purpose. She wanted a way out. Could she really just be cast aside like that? What was all this talk of people in the woods? This line of thought prompted a wrenching feeling of betrayal, overpowering her previous unease.
"Wh... what?" She whispered to herself, tracing over the blotched ink sprawled across the aged paper with her fingertips.

How long was she planning this? And what did she expect Vanity to do had the plan been successful? As if she hadn't shed enough already, more tears surfaced, seeping from her sore eyes in rivulets of sheer treachery. The only perceived thought occupying her head was how could she? The hefty sensation of helplessness settled on her shoulders. What now? What was she supposed to do now? Go into the woods like she had been told to? The very notion of that seemed ridiculous, and it felt more like a personal jab at her disposition rather than a genuine instruction. Her mind screamed, and she scrunched up the paper, teeth gritting and her jaw clenching as her eyes welled up, and bubbled over as searing tears of frustration and resentment.

"What...?"